


worship at an altar of flesh

by Azzandra



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: Slowly, over time, Edelgard's body transforms. And Hubert remains ever loyal.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 39
Kudos: 162





	worship at an altar of flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a [kink meme prompt](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=624348#cmt624348):
> 
> _Due to complications from her dual Crests, Edelgard starts slowly transforming into her Hegemon Husk form, and they have no idea of how to stop it. Hubert helps hide her from the public, keeps her grounded, clips her growing claws, preens the feathers sprouting from her shoulders, just generally helps take care of her, be it in the most private chambers deep within the Enbarr palace, or some remote wilderness location. He is devoted to her through and through, but her form has awakened some... complicated desires he isn't entirely sure how to reconcile with._

It started with small, unassuming things. Hubert noticed it first, because his eye was trained for detail, and he was one of the rare souls who got to see the Emperor in the morning, before she put herself together and faced the world in impeccable regalia. He was passing a report to her as she buttoned herself up. Her coat revealed a narrow strip of collarbone; her hands were entirely bare.

As she reached out to take the papers from Hubert, he took her hand in his, inspecting it. Edelgard watched in dull surprise--not that such touch wasn't permitted for Hubert, but that he so rarely took the liberty.

"Your Majesty, when did your nail beds begin turning black?" he asked.

Edelgard blinked, took her hand back, turned it to inspect her nails.

"I have no idea," she admitted lightly.

"Your Majesty--"

"I truly don't, Hubert. This is first I've noticed something like this," Edelgard replied, her tone curt. She turned away and finished buttoning up her coat, then slipped on her gloves.

But Hubert, familiar with the damage that magic could wreak on a body, made a note to have both the Imperial Physician and one of their more... specialized mages check on Edelgard.

He had developed a discerning eye over the years, especially when it came to Edelgard; he knew the tightness around her eyes when she had a growing headache, and the deliberate way she moved when her energy was flagging. He could recognize the flutter of a suppressed cough or the tension in her body when she favored an injured limb. This time, he could see no sign of distress no matter how he looked, and for some reason, it made him all the more uneasy.

The next day, the Imperial Physician and the mage would report nothing amiss to him; not that Edelgard's health was perfect, but that following the experimentation she had undergone as a child, and then the stresses of war, she was as well as could be hoped. Perhaps even better, considering how many things she should not have survived.

So Hubert resolved to watch and wait.

* * *

Edelgard's gloves were already on whenever he walked into her chambers every morning, but Hubert did not remark on it. She had developed a certain self-consciousness, like an unfamiliar weight between them.

Still he did not remark on it, because even doing so much would have intruded upon parts of herself that she held too closely. He had not been there, in the dark basement where her siblings died and where monstrous blood was forced upon her, and so he felt that no matter how intimate their rapport, there were thresholds he would never be able to step over unless explicitly invited.

The first shift in their strange new tension happened on a day that would have been much like any other, save that Edelgard was sitting in front of her vanity mirror with despondency written in every line of her body. 

The sight was so shocking, that Hubert stopped in his tracks. He could see her back, the way she was bent like she was guarding an injury.

"Your Majesty?" he hazarded.

"I cannot leave my rooms today." Her voice was clear and calm, devoid of any inflection. It was a voice that came from a place beyond depair.

"Why not?" he asked.

She didn't reply, didn't move. Hubert walked forward instead, closing the distance and coming to a stop next to the vanity.

He saw it, then, the way her hands were folded in her lap, upturned and fingers bent into claws. Claws, yes, that was accurate. Through the white fabric of the gloves, black nails poked out, cutting through to freedom.

Hubert knelt, taking one of Edelgard's hands and gently tugging off the glove. The nails were curled and sharp, and creeping veins of blackness were also advancing past Edelgard's second knuckle. This would not pass for an unusual manicure.

"You have a military inspection today," Hubert spoke calmly.

"I can't go."

"You will go. You will wear ceremonial gauntlets." He saw her head rise at this suggestion, no doubt recalling the sharp tips of the gauntlets, and how, with only slight modification, they might disguise the wicked edge of her claws. "We will deal with the rest tonight."

"They just--" Edelgard's voice hitched for the first time, out of the unnatural smoothness of despair. "They just keep growing and growing. I thought I could keep them in check."

"We will deal with the rest tonight," Hubert repeated. "Let me worry about it."

Edelgard nodded, and as she sighed, she seemed to shed the fear as well. That Hubert would handle it was all she needed to know.

* * *

An addition to Hubert's routine: mornings spent in Edelgard's room, filing her claws until the tips of them no longer cut through gloves. Procuring a larger size of gloves for Edelgard, or scheduling a second such session of nail-filing throughout the day would have stemmed this tide for a while longer, if that were the only change in her body.

Hubert arrived one morning to the sight of Edelgard in nothing but a dressing gown. He was surprised, as usually she would be at least halfway dressed, yet the reason became apparent when she turned around and shrugged off the dressing gown, exposing the expanse of her back.

He would have thought he was looking at a smattering of small bruises, save that when he approached, he realized they were small, gray down feathers, growing sparsely across her shoulder blades as they fanned outward from her spine. He reached over and tentatively plucked one out; Edelgard flinched.

"Pardon, Your Majesty," he rushed to apologize.

"No, no, please," Edelgard insisted, "you are correct, these can't remain."

Tentatively, he plucked another one of the small feathers: each soft, smaller in size than a fingernail, and coming out easily. When it was done, Edelgard's skin was flushed red, and hot to the touch, like it had been harshly scrubbed, but she did not seem injured for it.

Still, when he selected a shirt for her out of the wardrobe, he ensured it was made of silk, so it would be cool and soft against her skin.

It would not go as well the next day, when plucking each feather would leave a small drop of ruby behind, or the next day after that, when the feathers were no longer gray down, but black, properly-formed feathers.

He would know, while holding the back of her neck and feeling with a tug how deeply the feathers burrowed under Edelgard's skin, that this was not a solution.

"Perhaps," he suggested, mouth dry as he stared at the pitch-black feathers, "we need to work around these transformations."

Edelgard's head turned, slightly, so that he saw only the corner of her eye, the angle of her cheekbone, but not the look on her face.

"What do you propose?" she asked.

"A discreet tailor," Hubert suggested, and by that he meant that already he was mentally brewing the poison that would silence any such tailor should they speak of what they would see.

* * *

Hubert was nothing if not meticulous, and the benefit of being Minister of the Imperial Household was being able to rearrange the palace's functions to how they'd best suit the Emperor. First to make it easier for Edelgard to work from her chambers, shuffling more of her tasks to the domain of her private study, and then to delegate any tasks that required leaving the palace to those most competent for them. 

It was not overly difficult, all things considered. Many ailing or dying Emperors had had similar things done on their behalves; Adrestia had more than once been ruled by some consort or minister who'd secured themselves as sole point of contact with the Emperor, and though it felt distasteful to Hubert, he comforted himself with the knowledge that, no matter what anyone suspected of him, it was still Edelgard who ruled behind it all.

Still, Edelgard was seen by enough people that she was known to be alive: a mute chambermaid who kept her eyes down no matter what was around her as she went about her tasks; a seamstress whose children had been sent off to live a life of luxury fostered by a family of Hresvelg loyalists; two dour-faced guards, whose loyalty burned close to fanaticism; the Imperial Physician, whose profound fear of Hubert burned almost as brightly as that; a limited number of mages who already kept so many secrets between them that one more hardly made a difference.

Ferdinand, the ever-diligent Prime Minister, whose discretion could be counted on for the good of the country, if not the good of the Emperor. Dorothea, who'd always held Edelgard in the highest affection. Linhardt, whose expertise was invaluable, even in spite of his work ethic. Friends and allies who would not shun Edelgard no matter the state of her body.

By the time the whites of Edelgard's eyes had turned to black, and the natural pallor of her face turned to something chalky and gray in contrast, the transformations of her body had also become harder to conceal in other ways: her claws not only grew relentlessly, beyond the abilities of any nail-file to keep in check, but if he was not mistaken, her arms had grown strangely elongated in proportion to her body. He had noticed this due to the backless dresses she was now forced to wear, because the feathers on her back had grown into large protrusions, like stunted wings, overtaking the width of her shoulders and preventing her from wearing shirts comfortably anymore.

Edelgard had taken to inspecting herself in the mirror with dread every morning, her face pulling into grimaces that made her thoughts all too apparent, but Hubert would not have her dwelling on this, for her own sake.

What had once been efforts to curtail these these changes had now turned to maintenance, instead. He still filed the sharp points of Edelgard's claws, but only to give them a more even shape, and prevent her from snagging fabric or scratching furniture. Her feathers, too long and dug in too deeply to pluck, had grown in long and thick, and Hubert had taken to preening them instead.

The truth was, it was in Hubert's nature to destroy with impunity any betrayal of his Emperor. But the traitor in this situation was Edelgard's own body, and she felt this betrayal more keenly than any open wound. So, instead, with great care and ruthless pragmatism, he had taken to the upkeep of this new body. No matter what monstrous new characteristics she grew, she would always be his Lady Edelgard, fully, completely, in every part of herself.

That was why, when Edelgard gave him those long, tired looks at the end of the day, he would not flinch.

"Why are you still here, Hubert?" she would ask, and he would know that she wasn't merely asking why he was still in her rooms this late.

"Is it not obvious?" he would ask in return, giving her his slanting, secretive smirk that could be interpreted in a million different ways.

But whether or not it was obvious to her, she would not say anything in return, only accepting quietly.

* * *

The truth about Hubert was that he did not question his motivations when it came to Edelgard. If there was a load-bearing pillar to the entire structure of his personality, it was his loyalty to Edelgard, and so he did not even briefly consider the finer nuances of that loyalty.

Not at first, at least.

It was on one of the days when Ferdinand came to speak to Edelgard; the curtains had been drawn closed to allow only a thin slice of sunlight, which cut across the tea tray, intersected Ferdinand's cup and lit up the liquid within into glowing amber. If he leaned too much forward, the sun would be in his eyes, but even so, the way the sunlight fell on the curtains turned them luminous as well, and the red diffuse lighting was enough for Ferdinand to see by.

Edelgard, whose eyes had recently grown sensitive to sunlight, shied away from even proximity to the window; her armchair was positioned in the shadowed corner of the room. 

What Ferdinand likely saw was the outline of Edelgard's silhouette against the armchair, the contrast of pale skin and magic-blackened limbs. He did not flinch to see the hand that reached forward towards the tea tray to pick up a cup, but he went very still, like a rabbit hearing a hawk's cry. His chatter about the state of the court had a forced cheer to it that exasperated Hubert. What did Ferdinand have to fear from Edelgard's appearance?

He would have a chat with Ferdinand later, in the latter's office, about his conduct around the Emperor, and Ferdinand would stare Hubert right in the eye, like seeing something in Hubert that Hubert himself did not notice yet.

"Truly, you are not worried or perturbed by Edelgard's situation?" Ferdinand asked.

"No," Hubert had replied without thinking.

But later, well... he began thinking.

He thought of the elegant curve of her claws, like the talons of a raptor, and the way Edelgard grasped objects with a newfound delicacy lately. How she had picked up the tea cup with care not to scratch it, fingers splayed outward curiously. He thought of the way the feathers fanning out over her shoulders emphasized the muscles of her biceps, especially with the sleeveless, backless garments she had taken to wearing. He thought of how veins under her skin looked like the cracks under a porcelain object's glaze. He thought of black sclerae, like those of a wolf, a warning of danger.

Did he like the appearance of her now? Edelgard had always been a beauty in her own right, but that had always been a mere biographical detail for him: something he took into consideration for the way it affected the perceptions of others, and how it could be used for social manipulation to Edelgard's benefit. Occasionally, it was even an inconvenience: he had had to, on occasion, chase off the most obnoxious of suitors.

It was hard to apply concepts of classical beauty to Edelgard now. She was, if nothing else, striking, in the way a natural disaster or a prowling beast could be too compelling to look away from. But Edelgard had also never been vain about her looks, and Hubert had done his best to help her adjust to the practical aspects of what a different body meant.

Once given shape, he would carry these thoughts with him throughout the day, a weight pressing against the inside of his skull wherever he went, but especially noticeable in the evenings he'd spend in Edelgard's room.

After the duties of the day were over, ink and paper put aside, Hubert would sit next to her and file her nails to rounded points, one by one. The skin of her hands had gained a tar-like luster lately, an iridescent sheen that matched her feathers, with a texture that did not quite feel human anymore. Edelgard had grown self-conscious of it over the past few days, eager to draw her hands back from Hubert's touch when he was done working on her claws.

"Does it pain you?" Hubert asked, clasping her hand to inspect it closely. The skin did not appear cracked or chafed in any way.

"No, but--" Edelgard's gaze flicked down. "I realize it must feel disturbing to the touch."

"Nonsense, my lady," Hubert said, and drew the hand to his lips, to kiss her knuckles. He had a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, but there was no pretense to it. "You remain as stunning as always."

Edelgard raised an elegant eyebrow. "I didn't realize I looked that terrible before!"

"To me, you will never be anything short of an imperial beauty," Hubert assured, with maybe a bit too much vehemence. Edelgard looked at him oddly.

He recovered by offering to preen her feathers, which conveniently had him at her back and out of sight. The inconvenient thoughts had stirred like sediment, and he could not fully look her in the eye until he had time to decant them.

* * *

Later yet, when Hubert's head finally hit his pillow for the scant few hours of sleep he could afford to squeeze in every night, what lingered was the feeling of Edelgard's feathers against his fingertips.

He always removed his gloves for this task, and the softness of the feathers was shocking compared to the limited sensory variety his covered skin experienced each day. He could still feel the phantom sensation of his fingertips dragging along the length of each feather, setting it in line perfectly with the others.

More tangibly, he could feel the remnants of the oil that covered the feathers. The skin of his fingers, usually dry and damaged by the scars of lifelong magic use, felt softer than they had in years. He rubbed his purple-tinged fingers together with a kind of fascination; how strange, that such an alien feature would have such a benign effect. He had spread the oil across Edelgard's feathers, but he wondered if it would benefit her skin as well.

He imagined fingers dragging along the curve of Edelgard's shoulders, how the cords of her muscles would feel under his fingers, and then under his palms. How it would feel to trace her strong arms, or the outline of her waist.

Hubert heard the hitch of his own breath in the darkness, but even when his hand clenched the satin fabric of his nightclothes, he did not stop himself from imagining he was gripping Edelgard's dress instead--that he was pulling it up slowly, until the hem slipped high enough to expose her knees. Would there be changes there as well? Would he see a fine tracery of gray veins under her skin? Would he see feathers? Scales? Bulging muscles?

Would her skin feel strange or different? Did he hope the warmth of her thighs would be scalding against his hand, or that the curve of her shoulder would chafe against his cheek as he hid his face in the crook of her neck?

His hand slipped under his waistband to treacherous thoughts of forbidden things. He touched himself, and pleasure was like a hot wire in his belly, different from all the times in the past when he had gone about this task perfunctorily. He had never been skilled at building fantasies in his head, always reaching for something too intangible and ill-defined to provide satisfaction. This time, however, the fantasies came unbidden; they chased him down even if he did not want to pursue them, and they had teeth to sink into him. 

His heels dug into the mattress and scrabbled against it as though he was attempting to outrun the poisonous thoughts in his head, but he was pinned down by the heat dripping along his spine instead. One hand worked between his legs in an uneven rhythm, but the other scraped nails against the inside of his thigh, imagining something sharper, stinging deeper. His breath hitched, a bead of sweat tickled down his forehead, and his hand sped up.

He remembered the way Edelgard held the tea cup, careful to keep her nails from scratching it, and imagine she would touch the most sensitive parts of him just like that-- and then the image slipped to her being less than careful, to the sharp points touching with implied threat: first along his throat, then along his femoral artery, a bladed caress against the most vulnerable points of the human body.

Hubert stiffened, back arching as he hit higher and higher rungs of pleasure, until there was nothing but lightning shooting through him, hot and hungry, and his brain flickered between disjointed images of claws, feathers, exposed thighs, incoherent and devoid of narrative, but replete with meaning, serving only the purpose of his body as he chased his peak.

When he was spent, afterwards, sweat-drenched and accompanied only by the drumming of his own heart, he would not even have the energy for shame. Edelgard had burned through him like a terrible fire, and left him in the cooling ashes.

* * *

The next day, a return to routine.

He filed Edelgard's claws. He watched the way she held her cup. He observed the new dramatic lines in her silhouette as feathers grew ever outwards, spreading into something more suggestive of wings.

He smiled reassurance, and took every change in stride.

**Author's Note:**

> A kind reader has also drawn some very [lovely](https://adrestiandove.tumblr.com/post/623015916566970368/for-hegelbert-weekend-i-wanted-to-illustrate-a) [art](https://twitter.com/marquisvestra/status/1280379122305228801) inspired by this fic.


End file.
